


in vino veritas

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, F/M, Therapy Years, at least i hope it is, but still in character, tropey AU fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-18 00:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16107413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: “Doctor Du Maurier?” Hannibal approaches her, a genuine surprise, and obvious delight, on his face, “Are you staying here as well?”“Hello, Hannibal,” she utters though half pressed lips, “Yes, I am. Although I didn’t realise this place caters specifically to psychiatrists.” Her thoughts now comply sharp words to have with the colleague who recommended her this hotel.





	in vino veritas

Long, cream beaches, blue sky and spacious villas promising peace and solitude.

Absentmindedly, Bedelia browses through the pictures of the resort on Isla Culebra. She is unsure why she looked up the location in the first place, other than to put a stop to the emails from the colleague who had recommended the spot in first place. She blames herself for mentioning her fatigue, truly it is so unlike her to share such personal information and for good reason. She wasn’t _actually_ planning to go anywhere, but as further pictures enfold in front of her eyes the more inviting the prospect looks. It would be nice to escape, she thinks, quite literally in a way, since her patient will be absent the following week, taking time off himself. It appears to be rather perfect; never one to give meaning to random coincidences, she decides to grasp the opportunity nonetheless. Following the unexpected whim, she books the hotel and flights. It is not like her, but perhaps this is exactly what she needs.

 

The arranged driver awaits her at the gate, _Doctor Du Maurier_ printed clearly in black capital letters on the sheet of paper in his hand. She barely registers the scenery behind the car window, the anxiety medication she took before the flight still dulling her senses. It is already late when she arrives at the hotel; the lobby is empty, apart from the smiling front desk attendant. As he checks her in, he explains the hotel amenities, but his voice barely reaches Bedelia’s ears, her mind already looking forward to the quietude of the hotel room.

The room door closes behind her with a reassuring thud. She sighs with delight when her head sinks into a soft pillow and falls asleep at once. The holiday is off to a good start.

 

The following morning, she wakes up to a pleasant feel of breeze on her skin, inviting the smell of the ocean through the open window. She stretches slowly, feeling rested; she hopes the rest of the facilities will prove as comfortable as the bed.

The food does, she finds out soon as her room service arrives with a selection of fresh fruits, pastries and coffee. She enjoys her breakfast on the terrace, looking out towards the beach, her skin already itching for the feel of the cool water.

She unpacks the bag she neglected last night and chooses between her bathing suits; she selects a two piece, a rather impulsive and atypical choice for her, but so is this trip and she decides to embrace it.

A leisurely morning at the beach, followed by light lunch; she smiles to herself at the prospect of a carefree day in the sun. She decides to make restaurant enquiries before going swimming; she slips on a silky dress to cover the bathing suit and makes her way to the reception.

The hotel seems to be scarcely populated, Bedelia notices to her contentment, strolling down the white panelled floors. Her mind is occupied with planning the rest of her day while her eyes wonder around and she nearly walks into one of the pillars in the reception area.

_It can’t be._

Her reflexes save her at the very last second, but she gives no notice to the stone pole in front of her face as her eyes continue to stare in sheer disbelief across the room at the person currently seeking information at the reception desk.

That person is Hannibal Lecter.

Once again, Bedelia would consider this as strange coincidence if she believed in such nonsense, but she doesn’t, so she merely settles for _grossly inconvenient_.

Her mind races as she analyses the situation and her exit route, but she remains in her spot for a little too long…

“Doctor Du Maurier?” Hannibal approaches her, a genuine surprise, and obvious delight, on his face, “Are you staying here as well?”

“Hello, Hannibal,” she utters through half pressed lips, “Yes, I am. Although I didn’t realise this place caters specifically to psychiatrists.” Her thoughts now comply sharp words to have with the colleague who recommended her this hotel.

“I think it’s merely a fortunate coincidence,” Hannibal beams and Bedelia’s mouth twitches at the last word.

She scrutinises her patient’s appearance; Hannibal pays no mind to the rules of decency in public places, sporting a pair of loose cotton pants and nothing more. Without her customary heels, their height difference is even more noticeable, making her eyes level with his broad chest. His skin is already tanned, muscles stretching invitingly, a few droplets of water still clinging to his chest hair. He looks like a European god paying a visit to his Caribbean cousins.

She tries not to stare; it is _hard_.

“Well, I will not interrupt your beach plans,” he comments; his eyes assess her as well, falling on the straps of her bathing suit tied around her neck, “You should try the bar, I heard they serve excellent cocktails.”

And with that suggestion, he walks away, giving her a nice view of his back.

 

Bedelia returns to her room, her enquiries forgotten, the expected tranquillity disturbed, trying to decide what to do now. She cannot stay in her room, she concludes, it is _ridiculous_. The resort is big enough for the two of them. With that resolve, she makes her way to the beach, but looks over her shoulder twice to ensure no one is following her.

There are few people sun bathing, but none of them is Hannibal; she chooses a chair and wastes no time in shedding off her dress and heading to meet the inviting waves of the ocean, sloshing softly on the sandy ground. The water cools her skin instantly and invigorates her senses; the vast expanse of the ocean makes her feel like the only person on the island, calming her thoughts. She can almost forget of about her earlier encounter. _Almost._

She spends the rest of the day away from the resort, just in case.

 

Another tray delivered to her room marks the beginning of the next day; she tells herself it is more convenient as she sips on her coffee, ignoring the actual reason for avoiding the restaurant. She has not seen Hannibal again after their meeting and she intends to keep it that way. Yet as she walks towards the ocean front, something lingers in the back of her head, like an itch she can’t reach, an odd sensation she is being watched; she turns at times but finds the corridors always empty.

Her morning at the beach is followed by a massage appointment, an attempt to unwind her twisted muscles and her mind in turn. But it may not be such an easy task, she thinks, as a familiar face beams at her from the spa entrance.

“Lovely to see you again, Doctor. I hope you are enjoying the hotel,” Hannibal welcomes her, his half-naked body now glistening with oils. It is hard to believe this is the same man who always wears three-piece suits in Baltimore.

_I am trying to enjoy it._

The words swoop through her mind, but she does not utter them, settling for a polite nod.

“I am looking forward to my afternoon massage,” she says instead as Hannibal continues to stand between her and the doorway.

“They have some superb treatments here,” he advises, “Not that you are in need of any of them,” he adds at once, his eyes slowly taking in her body clad in the swimming suit with a thin, satin sarong tied around her waist.

His gaze seems very _bold_ , eyes set aflame, feeling warmer on her skin than the blaze of the morning sun, but she should not be the one to pass judgement; she has done some staring of herself after all.

They look at each other silently, before Bedelia’s eyes move towards the door, her destination and possible escape.

“I did not mean to keep you,” Hannibal say immediately, noticing her shifting stare, and makes room for her to pass.

“Thank you,” Bedelia replies, but pauses and turns before reaching for the door, “I hope you are enjoying your stay as well,” she adds politely; she has been unnecessary brusque with him and seeks to amend that.

“I am beginning to,” he responds with a smile and a nod goodbye then walks away slowly as if wanting her to appreciate the sight of him for a bit longer.

Bedelia extends her massage session, but the tension in her body appears to resist the treatment. Or demands a different one.

 

By the time the next day arrives, she grows tired of her self-imposed game. It has done nothing; she has come here to relax but so far, she has only heightened her paranoia and almost caused her neck muscles to spasm. And she has not managed to avoid her patient anyway.

Bedelia opts for more mature approach; meeting her _challenge_ head-on.

She selects a light blue dress, leaves her hair loose over her shoulders and makes her way to the restaurant. Elaborate plates of fruits, stacks of pastries and large bowls of breakfast cereals fill the breakfast buffet, waiting for the hungry guests. She spots him at once, wearing a shirt this time, a cup of coffee in his hands.

“May I join you?” she asks, standing next to him.

“Of course, please,” he looks beyond thrilled, nearly spilling his coffee as he stands up to pull out a chair for her.

The waiter arrives with a cup of coffee and takes her order. There is a moment of silence while both of them contemplate their next words with care.

“Are you enjoying your holiday?” Hannibal speaks first, choosing the most obvious topic, the question she has not answered the last time.

“I am, thank you,” she takes a mouthful of her coffee.

“The sun is treating you well,” he motions to her tanned skin, “It suits you,” he smiles, almost timidly.

The waiter returns with her order, poached egg whites on wheat, and they savour their breakfast in silence. It is unusual for Hannibal Lecter not to instantly strike up a conversation, his social skills are unparalleled; her direct manner must have surprised him more than it had her. The notion of having Hannibal speechless because of her is strangely pleasing to Bedelia.

Soon their breakfast is reduced to mere breadcrumbs, leaving them with nothing but to focus on each other again.

“What are your plans for today, Doctor?” Hannibal asks tentatively, putting the used napkin on his plate.

“Swimming and more sun bathing. The ocean is wonderful, I enjoy the open space. But no plans for the evening,” she does not know why she has included the last remark, perhaps a tiny hook in hope of bating an adequate response.

“Have you tried the cocktail bar yet?” he enquiries, almost too carefully, as if each word has been weighted repeatedly on his tongue.

“No, I have not,” Bedelia responds, her tone purposely indifferent.

“Perhaps-” he hesitates, “you would like to join me for a drink tonight?”

Bedelia lets the question linger in the air between them, enjoying her obvious advantage here, but then ends his suffering.

“I would love to.”

She has never seen him smile so widely.

 

Purple, backless dress has been hidden away at the bottom of her suitcase; Bedelia packed it just in case, not knowing what that “case” might be. She has not expected to wear it, but now it has found its purpose; she appraises herself in the mirror, pleased with the way the material accents her tanned skin.

The bar is located near the pool, strings of overhead lanterns illuminating round tables with cosy chairs; it is all very cliché, Bedelia reasons, looking at the setting, but still she enjoys the ambience. Perhaps it’s the balmy evening air, gently caressing her sun kissed skin, carrying the salty smell of the ocean. Or perhaps it’s her companion for the evening, already waiting at a corner table.

Hannibal chose a white shirt for tonight, shining brightly under the warm light of the lamps, calling to her like a beacon. His rich tan contrasts with the fabric, once again making him look like an island dweller, not just another tourist.

“Good evening, Doctor. You look wonderful,” he greats her, getting up at once and pulling out a chair for her, while his eyes wander around her body, making her feel very aware of the low cut of her dress.

“Thank you,” she sits down and smiles, “You look good too, Hannibal.”

No self-consciousness in his expression, he looks proud as a peacock upon hearing her compliment. There is no time for more pleasantries as the waiter approaches them with a practised smile.

“Good evening. What can I get you?”

“Good evening. I have heard great things about your cocktails and we would like to sample some,” Hannibal responds with a smile of his own.

“We can prepare you anything you like. The Amaretto Sour is very popular with our honeymooners,” he gives them a knowing stare and Bedelia is ready to rectify his mistake, sudden heat in her cheeks, but Hannibal speaks first.

“We will start with something sweet, please.”

The man nods and leaves with the same seasoned smile.

“I did not know this was a honeymoon resort,” Bedelia comments, watching the man disappear behind the bar, purposely ignoring the _assumption_.

“I expect every hotel on the island has a honeymoon suite in offer. And there is even a chapel here, for the honeymooners to be,” he adds with a smile.

“How very tacky,” Bedelia is not amused by the concept. If she had wanted to experience cheap weddings, she would have gone to Las Vegas.

“I agree that the venue leaves a lot to be desired, but it is not a place that counts most when two people in love want to seal their bond.”

“I did not realise you were such a romantic, Hannibal. Or such a traditionalist,” she gives him a measured look, reminiscent of their sessions.

“Are you opposed to the institution of marriage, Doctor?” he quizzes her in return.

“I am not. People should choose freely whichever social conventions they wish to be part of,” she replies coolly.

“But it is not for you,” he urges.

“I have never considered it, no,” she admits with reserve.

“Perhaps you are just in need of a right venue,” he insists, “Or a right person.”

Bedelia’s riposte remains unspoken as the waiter arrives with their drinks; two glasses decorated with an abundance of fruits and leaves. Bedelia takes hers, hoping to find some alcohol among the rain forest on display. It tastes sweet and fruity, like the presentation promised; she cannot quite make out the liquors, a sign, and danger, of a good cocktail.

“It’s rum and vodka,” Hannibal offers, somehow reading her thoughts and showing off his incredibly delicate sense of taste, “Delicious.”

“It is,” she takes another sip.

They sample the drinks without further words, enjoying the last stretch of the sun disappearing over the horizon in a purple bruise, giving way to an onyx night sky, encrusted with a handful of stars.

“I apologise for the inconvenience. I really did not mean to disturb your holiday,” Hannibal speaks after a moment, “It has been just a chance meeting.”

“I thought you do not believe in such things,” she teases him unexpectedly, the alcohol lifting her mood.

“I don’t, but I cannot say that I do not take delight in this,” he smiles at her playfully, “I am happy to enjoy a drink with you.”

“We share drinks all the time, Hannibal,” she counters. Their after-sessions’ glass of wine is unconventional enough, but apparently not for him.

“That is different. There are no professional obligations bounding us here,” a sudden glimmer in his eyes, “We have not shared a drink like that since college.”

He trails off, eyes glazed and lost in the memories. His words ignite her own recollections; they are as cordial as the summer breeze and as enlivening as the liquors cruising through her veins. She has always felt strangely comfortable with him, her mind roused and yet lighter in his company.

They finish their drinks and the waiter arrives swiftly with another cocktail, bright pink liquid in stemmed glasses with a few playful raspberries floating on top.

“Vodka and Cointreau liquor,” Hannibal proclaims upon tasting it, still attempting to impress her.

“I think the glass gives away a Cosmopolitan cocktail,” she deflates his ego but smiles nonetheless.

Her thoughts are untroubled for the first time in a long time. She does not object or analyse when his hand wraps around hers, his touch warm and tender.

“Another drink?” he asks when their glasses are empty again in no time, his lips hovering closely to her cheek; she can smell the raspberries on his breath.

“Yes,” she turns her face, her lips almost brushing his.

And then it all vanishes in a swirl of liquids and soft caresses.

 

The first strokes of the morning sun gently skim Bedelia’s cheek as she slowly emerges from her slumber. She is enveloped in warmth and comfort, unlike she has ever experienced before, but the ease disappears the moment she shifts her head and the room begins to spin behind her closed eyelids. At least the bed is so very _comfortable_ , she thinks, waiting for the world to stop moving, before she realises it is not the bed at all. A man’s arm is wrapped firmly around her waist, her back nestled perfectly against his chest. Despite her nausea, she opens her eyes and tries to turn her head. The attempt makes her groan and close her eyes again, but not before she catches a glimpse of her patient, sleeping soundly next to her.

_What has she done?_

Slowly, her eyelids flutter and open again, the bright light making her head hurt even more. Carefully, she untangles herself from Hannibal’s embrace and slips out of bed, becoming instantly aware of her nakedness. She seeks her robe, draped over the chair, and manages to walk towards the bathroom, hand on the wall, mindful not to make any loud noises.

She lets the water run in the sink while she waits for the dizziness to subdue. Her hands grab the edges of the sink as she looks to ground herself in the moment and an unanticipated clink of metal against the porcelain sounds louder than normal in her sensitive ears.

_She was not wearing any jewellery last night._

Lifting her hand, she manages to open her eyes wide enough to notice a plain, gold band around her ring finger.

That is unusual, she concludes, not a piece she would normally choose for herself. She twists her hand, examining the band. It looks like a….

Bedelia’s eyes spring wide open despite the ache in her head; she splashes cold water on her face and blinks rapidly, looking at her hand once more, hoping it was just a remnant of her alcohol induced dream.

The ring is still on her finger.

_No. It can’t be._

Apparently, the naked patient in her bed is the least of her worries. She pulls the robe closer around her frame and exits the bathroom.

“Hannibal,” she calls, her voice sounding weak, but she persists, “Hannibal, wake up.”

The man opens one eye and smiles when he sees her, stretching languidly in her bed.

“Good morning,” he purrs, sounding as content as he looks.

“What happened last night?” she dismisses the niceties as they are more pressing issues at hand.

“I am not certain, but I believe we have enjoyed ourselves tremendously,” he stares at her longingly, strangely immune to the aftereffects of alcohol.

“I think we did more than that,” she presents her hand, gold shining in the morning light.

Hannibal looks at the band curiously, then checks his own hand to find a matching ring.

“Oh,” he says simply and continues to lengthen his limbs.

_Oh?_ She has expected more of a reaction from him. This is more than a severe hangover.

“Did we get married last night?” she continues, irritated by his lack of urgency.

“It appears we did,” he says, getting up at last. The sheet slides away from his body, but he is unaffected by his state of undress, strolling down the room as if it were a typical occurrence between them. Bedelia averts her eyes at once.

A careful side glance a moment later tells her he has managed to find and put on his pants.

“Well?” she persists, “Do you remember us getting married?”

“I do not. I am afraid I have hardly any recollections of last night.” Hannibal gives his ring a similar throughout examination she has given hers.

“This is a very cheap ring,” he reasons, “Gold of the lowest quality.”

He frowns at the _real_ travesty of this situation and disappears in the bathroom. Bedelia takes the ring off her finger in one sharp movement; it was fitting rather too well for her liking. She then rushes to put clothes on, ignoring her head protesting with intense throbbing. She finishes zipping up her dress when Hannibal appears in the doorway again, looking way better than she feels.

“Should we get some breakfast?” he asks as though this were just a normal morning. As though they had not just woken up together with wedding rings on their fingers.

“Breakfast?” Bedelia blinks in disbelief, surely that is not the most pressing concern at the moment.

“Yes, we are severely dehydrated, and a nourishing breakfast is the best way to replace the minerals and vitamins,” he states factually and Bedelia must agree with his logic.

Perhaps when her head will clear, so will this situation. There must be another explanation for the mysterious appearance of rings on their fingers. Hannibal puts on his shirt, creased, but still looking somehow pristine.

“Shall we?” he opens the door for her and she leaves the room, still feeling more confused by his reaction than what has occurred. He follows her closely, evidently enjoying his walk of shame.

“I will make some enquiries,” he pauses at the entrance to the restaurant, “If you would like to take a seat in the meantime.”

Bedelia chooses the most secluded table in the restaurant, tucked away in the corner of the room, not wanting to come face to face with anyone who might have witnessed last night’s exploits. Hannibal joins her sooner than she expected, two glasses of coconut water, plate of fresh fruits and toasts in his hands.

“This will help restore your hydration levels,” he offers her a glass and sits down next to her.

Last night did little to curb his appetite; he tucks into his breakfast with gusto. Bedelia manages to eat a piece of fruit and take a bite of bread; it might be the biggest achievement of her day. She then watches him devour his food, waiting for him to speak, noticing with horror that he is still wearing the ring.

“Did you find out anything?” she asks at last, no longer able to contain her worries.

“Yes,” he replies, finishing his glass of water, “After we were done with our drinks, we visited the chapel. It was closed, but apparently, we were _very insistent_. The minister was really taken by us and did not want to stand in a way of true love.”

Hannibal takes a piece of bread and spreads butter on it as Bedelia stares at him in disbelief.

“He sends his best wishes. According to him, we are the most devoted couple he has ever met,” he concludes and bites into his toast, loud crunch resonating in Bedelia’s head.

“Do you remember any of this?” It all sounds like a nightmare she hopes to wake up from any minute now.

“No. I remember us leaving the bar and I recall going back to your room,” he says with a mischievous spark in his eyes, making Bedelia blush and avert her gaze, “but nothing in between.”

“I cannot believe someone would let us get married in that state,” she rubs her temples with her fingers. She has never been so disappointed with herself.

“I am sure we appeared to be of sane mind,” Hannibal contends, unusually amused. It is hardly reassuring to Bedelia, her head spinning anew.

“You seem to be treating the situation rather lightly,” she strives to make her voice sound stern, despite her mind feeling like a cotton ball; soft and woozy.

Hannibal looks at her, unknown thoughts rushing behind his eyes, assessing her with care, until a conclusion emerges.

“This is nothing that cannot be remedied,” he puts a segment of peach in his mouth, still looking unconcerned.

“A divorce,” a word she had never thought she would have to contemplate.

“I believe a simple annulment will suffice.”

Her eyes regain their sharpness as she looks at him with scepticism.

“I will take care of that,” he attempts to put her mind at ease, “Trust me,” he shines his most perfect smile at her, seeing her apprehension. His hand hovers close to hers, but he does not touch her.

“It cannot end any worse than your last suggestion,” she retorts.

Hannibal chuckles, how _inappropriate_.

“I think we have learned a lot last night,” he muses.

“Have we?” his bravado becomes more annoying by a minute.

_But that is not what you thought of him last night._ An insisting voice sounding like her and not like her at all pears through the mush in her mind.

“Yes,” Hannibal states confidently, “You know what they say, Bedelia, _in vino veritas_.”

He smiles at her brightly, the gold band on his finger ringing against the empty glass.

“Please send me the papers as soon as possible,” she feels another blush advancing up her neck.

She leaves him smiling and rushes back to her room. She does not leave it for the remaining of the day.

Bedelia is relieved when she puts the hotel and island behind her, looking forward to boarding a plane for the first time in her life.

 

Upon returning to the States, Bedelia welcomes the safe space of her home, but it does little to ease her mind. She spends the first night back barely sleeping, fragments of the lost night coming back to her in form of a broken dream; Hannibal’s lips and hands on her skin, shivers, laughter and moans, mostly her own. She wakes up confused and conflicted, feeling more tired than she was before the trip. At least her body has enjoyed the holiday, immensely it seems, even if she can’t remember most of it, she thinks almost despite herself. The attempt of spontaneity has back fired quite spectacularly.

The courier arrives that very afternoon with an unmarked envelope. Bedelia opens it to find a marriage annulment, all in perfect order, missing only her signature; she does not know how Hannibal has managed it, but he has kept his word. There is a certain reluctance in her hand as she signs the papers, her signature unusually shaky as the pen moves awkwardly across the page.

_You were least hesitant to marry him._ An irking voice sounds in the back of her mind and she silences it at once.

No more impromptu trips for her. Or fruity cocktails, for that matter.

 

The next Friday arrives quicker than she wished it would, preferring it did not come at all. She checks her outfit twice in the mirror, her blouse buttoned up higher than usual, straightening the invisible creases on her skirt. With the firm determination in her stare, she awaits the arrival of her patient.

Hannibal looks as immaculate as her, his tanned muscles once again hidden under layers of wool. Never before has the scripted nature of their sessions been so obvious as it is now, as they take their usual seats and exchange greetings. The hour is anything but productive; vague questions elicit equally vague responses. Hannibal is pleased that his favourite fishmonger is back at the market, Bedelia nods in response, and they both know this is hardly the topic worth their time here.

The event of last week remains unmentioned; surely as Hannibal’s psychiatrist she should address his _impulsive_ decision made under the influence of alcohol, but she cannot do so without implicating herself. And putting herself under clinical scrutiny is the last thing she wants.

She almost sighs in relief when the longest hour finally ends.

“Red or white?” she asks, although she should rather not. Still, keeping to their routine remains her best line of defence.

“I think white for today,” Hannibal responds and Bedelia wastes no time in leaving the office, returning swiftly with two glasses in her hands.

They drink in silence, looking out the window at her garden. Bedelia hopes for a swift end to this evening, wishing she has brought smaller glasses or poured less wine.

“I think I should apologise,” Hannibal says unexpectedly, turning to look at her and making Bedelia grasp the ball of her glass tighter.

“That is all right,” she avoids his eyes, focusing on relaxing her grip on the glass, “We both share the blame. Or rather alcohol does.”

“That is not what I mean,” he clarifies and Bedelia looks at him now, perplexed, “I am sorry for that place, you were right, it was truly dire. And the rings were of utterly inadequate quality. You deserve only the best.”

Bedelia stares at him, lost for words, but Hannibal is not.

“I can assure you I will get proper ones next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> This idea was conceived as a part of a trope mash up meme on tumblr. I wasn't going to write it at first, but then I decided to give it a go; it is something I haven't tried before. It was fun to throw these two into this tropey silliness.  
> Thank you for reading, I hope you have enjoyed it. If so, please leave me a comment. Feedback makes the writer happy and happy writer means more fic for everyone!


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